


Schluss

by lichtkleid



Category: Emigrate (Band), Rammstein
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 19:42:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8414143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lichtkleid/pseuds/lichtkleid
Summary: Richard's last visit to Berlin after his departure to America.





	

I only came back once to Germany after moving to New York, to take care of the remaining unfinished businesses, and of my apartment. It had taken me quite some time to decide to sell it, because doing so meant weaning me totally off my motherland, off my youth, and off many dear memories.  
In the end it was Emigrate's success that resolved me to do it. Then I knew I wouldn’t fall prey to nostalgia if I went back to Berlin.

I only realized how big my apartment was when they took out the furniture. For America, I had packed only the things I prized most and the absolute necessities. The appliances and the bigger things had stayed there, untouched under their veil of dust and their plastic covers.  
And as the handymen removed the tables, the chairs and the couch one after the other, I noticed some little marks in the hardwood floor, areas where the wood was paler, tiny holes in the wall where paintings were hung, cigarette marks left by careless guests.  
I paced once more in every room then told myself off, before grabbing the duffel bag I had packed to spend the night at the hotel. I was to leave the night after.  
I closed the door for the last time and realized that I did not feel that melancholic. I trusted my future and it felt good.  
My phone rang as I step into the lift. 

I saw Till’s name on the screen. He and I hadn’t talked since my departure; I had learnt that he had come to New York, but was relieved that he hadn’t wanted to see me. I wouldn’t have been able to handle it, back then: despite my success, guilt felt like a lead drag at my feet sometimes.  
But still I answered the call.  
‘Scholle, it’s me.’  
The nickname worried me. He used to call me like that when I was much younger, then started using it less and less. Those last years, it had been only to approach sensitive matters and it had made me feel weary of it.  
‘I know.’  
‘Are you still in Berlin?’  
I nodded to my reflection, and realized he couldn’t see me.  
‘I came back just yesterday.’  
‘How long will you stay?’  
His voice was unbearably soft. I could barely hear him.  
‘I leave tomorrow evening.’  
There was a long pause during which I realized that I hadn’t pressed the button to the ground floor.  
‘Scholle. Do you… Can I see one last time before you go? I want a closure. I promise you won’t hear of me again, afterwards.’  
I took a long look at myself in the lift’s mirror, gazing into my eyes darkened by the lack of proper lighting. They looked pleading. I gave in.  
‘Yes.’ I mouthed.  
I could tell that on the other line Till had been pulling at his lip ring and that he was now releasing it, relieved.

I knew already when I hastily put on make-up in the lift that I would regret this; that seeing him again would be the complete opposite of a closure, and that it would leave us both “bleeding dry on shore”, as Till once said.  
I met him in Pankow, somewhere not too far from Schneider’s. He was standing underneath a porch, his head hanging low between his shoulders as to protect himself from the pouring rain, and I found that he didn’t look as big as he once was.  
But he was. He was when he hugged me and I felt his arms tighten around me, a gentle but firm reminder of his strength; he was when he asked me in a very polite voice if everything had gone fine for me. I said yes but didn’t dare to return the question. I knew I was facing a man I had made, then broken: and no words could mend that.  
It was ugly, what happened between us; on top of my ambition he blamed for everything, a thousand of things laid rampant. It had been our constant opposition as two leading men, my love for his singing that sometimes felt like jealousy, and his weird, inexplicable possessiveness.  
Still, as it stopped raining, we left together once more. But as he walked fast, I was limping, burdened by the weight of my guilt.

He told me he’d booked a place, but that we needed to take the car. I nodded without a word and he drove me to the Television Tower in complete silence, even though the air was thick with his thoughts. I knew he was aching to ask, to wonder, to hear and maybe to argue, but what was there to tell? Could I apologize for wanting my own happiness? Would it change something? Apologizing meant regret, and I didn’t regret. My own indifference to him made my stomach turn.  
Then I realized, suddenly, as we crossed Alexanderplatz, that it was what he wanted: make me think of it, make me regret. He could be manipulative, and I knew suddenly that even though I’d never stay, in spite of him, I’d always wonder what could have been.  
Till Lindemann was a clever man; and after all such men do not react kindly to abandon.  
We got onto the lifts to the platform that sat over Berlin and I realized, too, why he was taking me to one of the city’s most iconic landmarks, where we were sure to be recognized plenty of times. It was because I had hated the East and I hated it still, and he wanted to show me the beauty it had built, the beauty I could never deny, and never forget.  
In the lifts, his body uncomfortably close to mine, he looked utterly foreign. I had to lift my gaze up to look at him, and he looked serene and unreachable like on stage. I hated him for it.  
‘I want to have a drink. Are you thirsty, Scholle?’  
I was thirsty indeed. We stopped by the bar. It was crowded, the tiny counter was covered with drinks of all kinds and cocktails menus, and all the seats occupied. A disorganized queue was waiting patiently for the overbusied bartender. We went through and walked outside, on the platform above Berlin, with our drinks in hand. I raised mine and clicked it to his. And above the wine, we shared a little smile. He had chosen it: a Roman wine, some dark Lambrusco that appeared black in the evening.  
It widened my smile. I was never good with wines; he was the self-taught connoisseur and sometimes he gloated about it, in our private spheres, with that happiness in his eyes that had grown scarce. And I realized one last thing, that night.  
He was not my enemy; he was a man who had loved me for decades and would love me still, even after I left. So what if he was hurt by my demise? Just for one night, for him, I could pretend. I could try and make him happy one last time, to fulfill that promise I never kept, only for one evening. Was that really too much to ask?

We could never be friends, but we could have a clean, gentle cut. 

We went down to the restaurant afterwards, as the night was truly setting and it was getting cold, and we sat in front of the Karl-Marx Allee. It was truly a magnificent place. Berlin was shining underneath us. It was striking how much we resemble ants, seen from above.  
The waiter distributed menus. I wasn’t hungry, but it offered a welcome distraction to my eyes, which kept floating back to him; I fixated them on the printed letters. He didn’t offer me the same courtesy, his gaze eating me apologetically, desperately, as if he was trying to drink my whole being into his eyes.  
We had surf and turf and more wine. I ditched the Roman wine in favor of a light, fizzy Prosecco that probably didn’t fit the food, and ended up disappointed by the lack of comment on Till’s part and the taste of the wine.  
Later, he asked me if I wanted to have a shot of schnapps, but I declined. I didn’t want to came home drunk.

I went home with him that night, because, after all, this was all I came for. I hung my coat in the corridor, as I had done a thousand times, and sat on the couch while he yelled from the kitchen, as he had done a thousand times:  
‘Red or white?’  
Red was his favorite, so I told him to go for it, and he came out of the kitchen with a burgundy bottle in his hand. It wore a crown of dust and I wondered if it was one of the very old ones he kept for special occasions.  
He poured us two glasses and set back the bottle on the coffee table. We clicked them together. He swirled the wine and took a sip. I followed; letting it seep inside my mouth, invade my taste buds, as it would, later, my mind. I thought of making some comment on the wine, but once again he was the specialist and I would sound like a fool if I tried. So I simply set down my near-empty glass and he winked at me.  
‘Help yourself.’  
I refilled both our glasses, and as the alcohol worked its way into my brain, the ice broke between us. And for one evening, everything flowed back. We talked of all kind of things, from Russian politics to Greek literature, from my daughter’s future career choices to his short-lived job as a carpenter. We laughed of many things, of me, of him. Till was dangerously funny when he was drunk, but he always knew to tiptoe on the line without crossing it.  
Until the bottle was empty and he leaned over the table, looking at me intensely and whispering:  
‘Why do you have such ambition, Scholle?’  
His eyes had the wisdom and the weariness of some ancient philosopher, and I found he looked old.  
I wanted to tell him it was not only ambition, tried to explain myself, but found the words thick in my mouth and coming out much different of what I had wanted them to be.  
So he simply towered over me and crushed his lips to mine. It wasn’t the best kiss we had, but it was so desperate that I let myself succumb to it. 

He was furious in his sadness, I could tell, I could feel it when he peeled off my shirt and my pants, and suddenly he was grand again, that big man I could barely hold in my arms.  
I tore away his stupid T-shirt and opened his worn jeans and he took me there on his couch, as he’d done a thousand times before.  
Then when we parted, panting and slowly coming to our senses, I curled against him and reassured myself with the steady, though a little quickened, beating of his heart. I fell asleep there, against his chest, knowing that he loved me and feeling, pettily, calmed down by the thought. The last thought that crossed my clouded mind as I drifted off is that I should leave during the night, so he wouldn’t have to face me in the morning.

But sleep claimed me that night, and only the break of dawn instilling light in my eyes forced me awake. I blinked and noticed that I was on his bed; he must have carried me there during the night.  
He was lying on his side next to me, with one of his arms clutching my stomach. I removed myself from underneath it and got off the bed, but as I stood above him, I wished I didn't have to leave now. He looked like a goddamn Renaissance painting this way, carelessly sprawled on the mattress yet immensely delicate in the abandon of sleep, his body painted amber by the red caress of the sun.  
This image of him, lying still in his sleep, would be one that I would remember forever, even after my return to America.

And there, as he slept still, I took him with ferocity, with my hand on his throat, getting high on his pulse, because, I, too, wanted to be part of the painting. I fucked him awake, and got rougher when he opened half-lidded eyes, still lingering between tangible and dream. A strange light shimmered in his eyes for a second, the gaze of someone who cannot part from his thoughts. I wanted him to feel, wanted him to be present. I didn't want him to think. So I brought my hand up and slapped him. I didn’t do it harshly – I never could, but enough for it to sting, for him to snap out of his thoughts.  
He was awaiting this, and gave in easily, rolling his eyes back and letting me ravage his body.  
But as his mouth fell open, and as he tried to catch his breath, confused and blissed, I couldn’t help but bend over and kiss him, stealing his air, drowning in his scent. He scrambled for me, wrapped his arms around my back and his legs around my hips.  
It wasn’t long before we both felt on the edge; I enclosed him with my hand and focused on his pleasure as much as I could.  
His ragged cries got me to the place where love and lust collide, and we fell together.  
I stayed on top of him as I caught my breath, and he ran gentle hands on my sides, keeping quiet, as usual. And there, nestled between his thighs, both hands resting on his hips, I looked down at him, softened into the sheets with his hair incandescent in the light, and, once more I savored my prize: to have quieted down the wordsmith.  
I laid down on him, and he kissed the top of my head, with a reverence he showed sometimes, on very scarce occasions.  
‘I love you, Richard’, he said calmly.  
He couldn’t see the shift in my expression, nor the sad smile that curved my lips, so I only retaliated with pressing my lips to his chest, tightening my grip on him. I had wanted this to be a goodbye, but it wouldn’t be, it could never be.  
There was no closure for us, because, as he said a moment later, struck down with the revelation:  
‘You love me still, don’t you, Scholle.’

**Author's Note:**

> The side story to 'Amerika', set shortly after. I had written this first, but let it sit in my folders forever for some reason.  
> Hope you enjoyed!


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